


Persian Rugs

by whollyyharryy



Category: Larry Stylinson - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, And dates Eleanor for a lil, Blowjobs, Bottom Harry, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Go Easy On Me, Happy Ending, Harry gets bullied a lot, Jealousy, Louis is kinda straight at first, M/M, Masturbation, Popular!Louis, Sexuality Crisis, Top Louis, Zayn seems like a dick, but it’s not centric, but really it’s tough love, explicit shit all around, harrys a nerd, im nervous as fuck, larry - Freeform, louis is like popular and Harry’s not, louis plays footie, m/m - Freeform, nerdy!Harry, this is my first time writing gay porn holy shit, ziam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-08-28 23:31:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16732725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whollyyharryy/pseuds/whollyyharryy
Summary: Harry reckons being a virgin isn’t so bad.Especially since the only person he’s willing to lose it to is practically balls deep inside his girlfriend, dancing around his teammates, unbelievably oblivious to Harry’s utter existence.Or in which Harry’s a nobody, Louis’s the (very straight) captain of the footie team, and it all kinda goes straight to hell whenever Zayn gets involved.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’m relatively new to this so please don’t hate me for any awkward/incorrect English slang, or if my first attempt at gay smut turns out utterly horrific and ineffective. It’s a process. 
> 
> With that being said, enjoy! I’ll try to update this as regularly as possible. xx

So he’s kind of old fashioned when it comes to living. 

Starting fires instead of kicking up the portable heater, igniting candles rather than keeping a side lamp at beck and call, eating at the dinner table opposed to in front of the telly or up in his bedroom where he’s got a nifty little collection of his favorite childhood bedtime stories. Harry’s been called an old soul, first by his mum when he was eight and—“You’d rather watch that record spin all day then go out and play footie with your mates? Really?” became his usual. Then by his grandparents, when staying in and watching old reruns of Jeapordy had been considered ‘mature for his age’ and he’d gained enough, “You’re such a sweet boy,”’s to last him an eternity. 

It hadn’t really ever occurred to him, what being an old soul consisted of. Not until after Zayn had happened, and they’d just about chilled out and read every comic strip ever made before the end of Summer. 

Zayn, fifteen, slightly gangly, with a pair of thick rimmed glasses hanging off the bridge of his nose, was on his second cup of freshly squeezed lemonade when he stated, ever so nonchalantly, “Harry. It’s nice outside.” 

Harry stared at him owlishly, jabbing his thumb to where the birds irritably sang their songs and the winds slithered through the open crack of their sliding glass door. It wasn’t that he didn’t like going outside. He just much rather perfered being nestled up in his favorite quilt, surrounded by the things that made him feel safe. Apple crumble scented candles, couch rendezvous, Zayn, milk and cookies, and quite frankly (he’d state it proudly in front of anyone who asked personally), his mum. 

So all he really had the mind to say was, “Yeah. I guess.” 

Two honey suckle eyes framed with lashes that stretched for days blinked down at him slowly. With a sigh and a slight shake of his head, he carelessly threw down the book in his hands, something involving Adultery and Puritanism, before kicking his legs off the coffee table and back down into his favorite trainers. “C’mon Harry. Work with me.” 

Harry rose his eyebrows, acknowledging. “I’m reading.” 

“You’re always reading.” 

“It’s enriching.” 

“Sure,” Zayn agreed, but the hitch in his voice gave away the gentle counterclaim hanging on the tip of his tongue. “But school starts tomorrow, and then we’ll have nothing else to do except enrich ourselves.” 

“I’m self-enriching. Heard it’s good for building character.” 

“You know what else is good for building character?” Zayn ticked his chin down at his hands, where he’d gotten a couple of scuffs from rock climbing or skating or whatever the hell Zayn invested his time in when he wasn’t feeling bad for Harry. “Exploring. Putting yourself out there. Didn't you say you had a thing for that Louis guy? Tomlinson, right?” 

Harry had vaguely remembered mentioning Louis after a footie match last year, had vaguely remembered watching Louis strut the field with his face drenched in his own sweat and his jersey clung to his rather shapley body. Had only kind of remembered the score of the game and how well Louis had preformed and the little satisfactory grin that always lifted his face when his team prevailed. And, ever so vaguely, does Harry remember quickly mentioning he’d like to lick Louis from head to toe if he’d let him. Vaguely. It was cold, and he’d been hungry, and doesn’t your mind only function properly when you’re warm and stuffed over a fulfilling meal—

“I don’t recall,” Harry says for the hell of it, hides his face in his comic when the heat beneath his skin becomes rather unbearable. Besides, he wasn’t actually gullable enough to believe he’d have a chance at pulling Louis. This wasn’t an oldies sitcom. Or his favorite Romance novel. This was Harry’s very real, very tragic life, starring himself as the only openly gay guy on campus, Zayn as his very unimpressed, very concerned friend, and the rest of his schoolmates, who hated his guts for reasons that often flew straight past his head. 

So no, Harry wasn’t going to date the captain of the footie team, and he was most likely going to stay a virgin for the rest of his life. Big deal. 

“You said he was fit!” 

“Cause he his,” Harry murmured, sheepish. 

“Bet you vacation in the Bahamas has done him nothing but well.” Which is so true Harry’s entire body trembles. So he might have done a little bit of Facebook stalking within the past few days, had seen the glorious expanse of tan skin for himself, the way those twinkling blue eyes had contrasted against all that color, an endearing little grin that had made Harry want to punch himself in the face, because, please. Louis was easily the rising star in at least seventy five percent of Harry’s wet dreams and a shocking ninety nine percent of his wanking material. Pathetic. 

“Doesn’t matter anyway. He’s got a girlfriend.” Harry thinks it through, thinks of the way Eleanor fits next to Louis so nicely in those photos, prettily adorned in a tight fitted bikini or a dazzling little sundress that wraps around her body like limbs dipped in paint. “And even if he wasn’t taken, he’s straight.” 

Zayn crawls towards where Harry has curled himself into a fetal position. “So? You’ve got curls and dimples and big ass hands. Turn him.” 

Turn him. Turn him. Harry’d like to turn him inside out with his cock, better yet, have Louis turn him over and pound him into his matress, whatever works best for Louis really, as he was never really one to pick a preference—

“Louis Tomlinson doesn’t just go for anybody. Especially boys.” Harry sighs, stares at Zayn’s side profile sadly, then adjusts the quilt thrown over his legs so that it’s thrown over Zany’s too. “There’s a hierarchy, you know? I’m a thousand percent sure he doesn’t even know I exist.” 

“I guess,” Zayn says, sounding a bit like he’s accepted defeat. “I just want to see you happy, Haz. Promise me you’ll at least try to get out more. There’s nothing wrong with being an old soul, but I’d like to see you have fun first.” 

Harry squints accusingly, shifting his eyes from Zayn to his comic to Zayn again. “Define fun.” 

•••

It happens on a Friday evening, the first Friday of the first week of school, to be articulate. Zayn had been looking Harry up and down all week, silently judging the books he’d checked out from the library that day, to the way he styled his hair in the same old, squeaky clean quiff. From the sweater vests that came in tacky patterns, to his choice of location in which he spent lunch. (Typically alone, until Zayn showed up, and with a small baggy of baby carrots and a sandwich perfectly wedged into two triangles, courtesy of his mum.)

“That’s it,” Zayn announces as he hurls past the double doors of the building, gently nudging Harry’s foot with his own. “No more books. No more reading. We’re going out tonight.” 

Harry, frazzled, takes a large bite of his turkey on ry, slowly chews his food, lifts a large hand to protect his eyes from the beaming sun, and offers a surprised, “Out?” that sounds kind of like a toddler trying to spit out its first words rather than a question. “Tonight?” 

“Yes.“

“Why?” 

It’s been five days, Harry realizes. How the hell am I supposed to change after five days? 

“You’ve spent the last week doing exactly what I asked you not to do.” And because Zayn’s Bradford accent only comes off strong when he’s frustrated, Harry deems it safest to simply take the constructive criticism before peacefully going on his way. “God, H. Look at you. And you wonder why you’re always getting picked on! You’re a sixteen year old guy trapped in a middle aged mans body.” 

And that, well, that hurts. Like a bitch. Harry physically feels the force of it though Zayn hasn’t put on a finger on him, feels the resonating smack right along his cheek, revels in it, tastes it, gets to know it well, and then brushes it straight off. 

Because Harry knows whenever Zayn insults him it’s almost always void of any malicious intent. (Though that doesn’t go to say the subtle digs don’t weigh on Harry’s shoulders, make him more conscious of the fact that the entire school thinks he’s a freak for looking the way he does, for being so invested in his school work, for caring about the environment and for children and for maintaining a good relationship with his educators.) It is what it is. Maybe it’s for the best.

His father would’ve called him sharp and sophisticated, would’ve made him out as a fine young man. Everyone else calls him stupid for trying, makes him feel like an alien in his own skin for being different. Harry doesn’t care all that much. As long as he’s doing what makes him comfortable. 

“Don’t wanna go out,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. Zayn owes him an apology before he steps foot anywhere even remotely near him, matter of fact. “At least not with a prick like you.” 

“I’m not doing this for my benefit Harry. I’m doing it for yours.” And in two seconds flat, Harry’s being ushered up and off his feet. His sandwich falls straight out of his hands and directly into the grass field, but all Zayn offers is a sheepish grin and a promise to buy him a new one later. 

“Where are we going?” Harry asks, trailing behind Zayn. He tries to ignore the way the prodding eyes roll over the two of them curiously, probably wondering why someone as important as Zayn Malik would even bother associating with a nobody like himself, but the eyes are everywhere and he’s always been the subconscious type. He couldn’t help it even if he wanted to. 

“Toilets.” 

“You’re completely capable of going yourself.” 

“This is going to take the both of us to get through, trust me.” 

“What?” Harry snorts, yanking his arm from Zayn’s grasp when they burst through the doors of the toilets. “Need me to hold your dick out for you?”

And it’s as if the universe enjoys the way Harry’s face swells up when he cries, because three heads snap in his direction, and Louis Tomlinson’s is one of them. 

“Zayn,” one of them greets, a burly guy with ridiculous red hair, someone Harry’s seen on the field alongside Louis, “Hey man, it’s good to see you again. Missed us already?” And then his eyes trail over Harry, awkwardly sheltered behind Zayn like a petulant kid afraid to meet the guests of his house warming party. “This freak bugging you?” 

“I’m sure he’s got a name, Ed,” another voice pipes up from behind him, a beached blonde Harry’d gotten familiar with when they’d been assigned partners for a project in bio tech. A decent lad, if Harry remembers correctly. Niall. 

“Right,” Ed agrees, wetting his hands before raking his fingers through his hair, “M’ sure he prefers twink. That’s a compliment for a fag, isn’t it?” 

“Lay off,” Niall mutters, maybe even dares to shove Ed despite being half his size, yet all Harry can focus on is the terribly distraught expression plastered all over Louis’s features. “Sup, Harry?” 

“Sup?” Harry mimics, cringing at how forced it sounds to his own ears. (He tends to do and say stupid shit around beautiful people. Or, a beautiful person. Singular. Louis, to be exact.)

“You coming tonight?” 

Harry prepares to interject, instantly jumps on board because it’s no coincidence Zayn had butted in on his alone time demanding a night out, and now Niall’s stood in front of him, asking if he’ll show up to some unspoken event he hadn’t even been aware of until now. But, Zayn squeezes his wrist painfully and hits the punchline before Harry’s even close to politely declining, and, “Yeah. He’ll—we,” he corrects pointedly “—will be there,” are suddenly words that swarm the air along the bitter stink of piss. 

“Great. I’ll see ya both there then?” Niall pats Harry on the back, a friendly gesture that substitutes as more of an apology than anything. Zayn gets an approving nod from Ed, a half genuine grin from Louis, and then the three of them them are all filling out of the toilets without another word being said. It all happens in that order. 

As soon as the door swings shut and Harry does a quick scout for legs beneath the stalls, Zayn’s receives a well deserved smack upside the head, kudos to Harry’s ‘big hands.’ “The fuck?” Zayn whines. “The hell was that for?” 

“For intentionally humiliating me in front of Louis!” Harry whisper-screams. “What the fuck, Zayn? Why would you bring me here when you knew he’d—“ 

“Hey,” the raven haired boy interrupts, rubbing at the back of his scalp with a pout. Harry kind of resents him for looking just short of a Greek god, rather than ridiculous. “At least we know he knows you exist now.” And it’s the stupidest logic he’s ever heard of, he feels like fainting. 

“Yeah, because being called a twink by one of his footie mates is exactly what I want him to remember the next time he sees my face.” 

Zayn straightens up. “So there’s going to be a next time?” 

Harry scoffs. “Thought you said going out tonight was non-negotiable.” 

“Never said non-negotiable, but since you’ve gone out of your way to word it so prettily...” 

And Harry had kind of walked straight into that one, he thinks, because school comes and then it ends, and then him and Zayn are suddenly cooped in Harry’s room for the rest of the evening, making ends meet with the clothes Zayn refers to as ‘the biggest wardrobe malfunction of the century.’

It’s all unfair, really.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovlies. Quickly want to mention that I’m super grateful for all of the lovely feedback, whether that’d be comments or kudos. Y’all are the sweetest. 
> 
> Also I’m super nervous about this chapter because this is where shit starts to get real? Am I ready for this? Are y’all ready for this? 
> 
> As always, enjoy! xx

Zayn asses Harry’s attire thoroughly, from his hair, to the shirt that dips delicately along the lines of his collar bones. From the jeans that feel like they’re supressing Harry’s everything, to the rugged, scuffed up boots on his feet. He even goes as far as tousling Harry’s hair with his hands, brushing through the strands until he’s satisfied with the way they’ve been maneuvered into a soft quiff. Harry takes one good look in the mirror and instantly regrets allowing Zayn to so much as suggest picking out tonight’s outfit. 

“I don’t look like me.” Harry zones in on his reflection in the mirror. It’s crazy, what a new outfit and some hair product can do to change a man. 

“Exactly,” Zayn tuts, shoving up from off the bed. He looks Harry up and down appreciatively, whips him on the bum with a random strewn shirt for emphasis. “If you weren’t my best mate, I’d hit that.” 

Exasperated, Harry eyes Zayn through his reflection in the mirror. _”Who the hell are you?” ___

____

____

“A fucking mirical worker, if I’ve managed to make you look that good within a two hour time frame.” Zayn, ever the charmer, bends to tie the laces of his boots with his face twisted passively. “If you’d let me dress you more often, you’d have plenty of interested contenders.”

“Contenders,” Harry repeats mockingly, still warily assessing his new attire. He doesn’t want to look like he’s trying too hard. Doesn’t want to give off another poor impression, since the first hadn’t been the most assuring, to say the least. “What is this? Jeopardy?” 

“You done silently doubting yourself over there? Can we get a move on?” 

His own curious eyes bear into all of his exposed skin. Lots of arm, lots of neck, lots of peck. The chest is a bit much, he thinks with a start, and in two seconds flat he’s stripping, rummaging around the mess they’ve made of his room while playing dress up, before tugging on a long sleeved pullover that accentuates the color of his eyes quite nicely. Zayn almost immediately showcases his dissatisfaction with a pained groan. “Too much too soon,” Harry tries to explain. “I’ll look like a pushover.” 

“No,” Zayn starts. “You’ll look like you belong.” 

“Except I don’t.” Harry smoothes the wrinkles out of the fabric of his shirt, twirls to take a look at his backside, shrugs as if it’ll do, snaps on the same cross necklace he’s been wearing for the past five years, then hides the pendant beneath the neckline of his shirt. “I think I still look good, anyway. A little of my old self and a little of you. It works.” 

Zayn stands, takes a step back, rakes his eyes over Harry slowly. It takes a few moments, but a silent look of approval eventually clouds over Zayn’s sharp features, and his lips have already twisted into the accepting jeer Harry only gets the privilege to see on his good hair days. “I guess I don’t hate it,” he helpfully chirps. “And if all fails, the dimples and candy pink lips will prevail.” 

“Candy pink lips, huh? That one’s new.” 

“You ready or not, Styles?”

And so he kind of rocks on the balls of his feet slowly, (thinks that’ll somehow level the nervousness in him), fingering the dainty chain around his neck. The air outside is warm, a nice breeze to accommodate the warmth it brings to Harry’s cheeks. The room is cool, aiding to the slight tremble in Harry’s hands and the weird dampness lingering on his palms. With a shake of his head, he snaps his window shut and slides the lock in place. Two seconds later, and he’s patting his pockets for his phone and keys. “Should we take the back door?”

“Your mum home?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Zayn shoves him out of the way, bristles back the dark moss colored curtains to look for a car parked in the driveway. Upon finding an empty parking spot, he practically drags Harry through the foyer and down the street where he’s parked his car (a saftey precaution they’d discussed ever since they’d started street cruising at night, and had proven to work every time.) 

After they’ve settled, Zayn fixes his hair in the rear view, muttering a surprised, “Too easy,” against the small stud in his tongue. 

Harry buckles his seatbelt while Zayn starts the car. “I hate lying to my mum.”

“And I hate having a nan for a best mate. Wanna talk about it?” Two slaps to the chest, a flick to his ear for good measure, and suddenly Zayn’s revving down the road with an eyeroll and a tasteless shake of his head. Harry rests his cheek against the window, feels the cool glass seep through his hair and into his scalp. The night is beautiful; the stars are out and the moon is shining. The songs being played on the radio are strictly from Zayn’s collection of his favorite albums. His phone is mostly void of any text messages involving worried ‘where’ve you gone off to, love’’s or other pesky, redundant voicemail clippings. Life’s pretty good. 

“We should’ve taken a cab.” Zayn fumbles around in his glove department for his cigarettes. When he finds them, he pulls two from the pack, sticks one between his lips, and leaves the other to rest in the cleft behind his ear. “Light me up, will ya?”

Harry stares at Zayn’s side profile for a while, wondering if he’s serious. When Zayn side eyes him, rolls his hand through the air impatiently, Harry quickly beings to scrimmage through the loose fast food napkins and piled up insurance cards. After a bit of deep digging, he finally feels the cool surface of a lighter slip delicately between his fingers. The flame sticks at his first attempt, and then again at his second. But after the third flick of his thumb, the fire ignites, and Zayn cranes forwards to mesh the tip of his cigarette to the slowly distinguishing flame. With a huff and a small puff of smoke, the fire has settled. 

Harry throws the lighter back into the glovebox before shooting a curious glance over his shoulder. “What do we need a cab for?” 

“We don’t have a D.D.” 

Harry stares at Zayn like he’s got five heads. “You’re forgetting I don’t drink. I’ve got no problem being the D.D.” 

“Ha!” Zayn cries, hysterical, “as if I’d ever let you lay a hand on my precious car. And besides,” he takes a long drag from his cigarette, “tonight’s about you. No way am I letting you get out of this sober.” 

“Sounds a lot like peer pressure to me.” 

“I’m pretty sure it doesn’t count if I have your best interests at heart.” 

Five minutes later, and they’re backing into the only parking spot available on the street, just short of five feet from a fire distinguisher. “I’m pretty sure this is why you’ve got court in about a month.” 

“Hey,” says Zayn, jumping out of the car. “Mind your own.”

Which. Okay. Harry tries, because it’s all he can do. Tries to unbuckle himself and untangle himself from passenger seat cooly, tries not to let himself look so new to this. 

Harry focuses hard on the grainy road debris grinding beneath his feet, doesn’t bother taking in the music he can literally feel in his lungs from a block away, the glum aura of sick drunks all residing in the front yard, the fact that Niall’s house has changed from the last time he’s seen it, with a thick bumbling garden of carnations in the front and a pert little garden nome to keep them company. 

The door’s grand, a sophisticated slab of mahogany wood with gold embellishments. He shoulders straight passed a guy texting away on his phone, completely oblivious to his drink two seconds from sloshing over the rim. Harry holds his breath when the stench of beer hits him strong, tries not to let the nostalgia get the best of him. 

“Harry,” two hands, warm and familiar, jostle him softly, “Harry man, don’t freeze up on me now.” 

“I’m not freezing up,” he defends, frozen in place, “frankly, I don’t want to be here.” And because guilting Zayn has been proven to be more effective than any of his other tactics to work his way out of situations he has no desire to be in, “I hope you know I’m here against my will. I’ll probably breathe in all that smoke from all these joints and get contact high. And then you’re going to have to have explain to my mum why I’ve got THC in my system.” He cracks his knuckles, an old habit he hasn’t been able to bust since summer camp in grade three. “You’ve practically kidnapped me.” 

Zayn’s whiskey eyes dance with amusement. “Honestly, Harry. You’re a real riot.” 

And then he’s being swallowed alive by the first wave. 

The air’s murky, curls over Harry’s skin, causes the beads of sweat that’ve curled around the neckline of his shirt. He supposes he hadn’t really thought through wearing a pullover to a party—in fact, he hadn’t really had the chance to stop and think _at all _. He’d spent the entirety of college overthinking, fearing overstepping, avoiding potential experiences because he hadn’t thought he’d needed them. But he sees that he does need this, now that he’s actually bothered listening to Zayn. He does need to get out of his head a bit, needs to take a step back and focus on being a teenager rather than a student, for a while.__

__He won’t be sixteen forever._ _

__“Want a drink?” Zayn shouts over the steady thrum of the music. “Nothing too strong. Just to give you a bit of a buzz.”_ _

___A bit of a buzz _doesn’t sound too bad. He can handle a bit of a buzz. He’s at a house party, for Christ sake, a little buzz should be his last concern.__ _ _

____“Yeah,” Harry calls to Zayn’s retreating figure, earning a frantic wave of a hand. Apparently, Zayn hadn’t been expecting that._ _ _ _

____He all of completely regrets coming, when he realizes he’ll have to endure a moment without the additional emotional support, though._ _ _ _

____In the meantime, he does his best to not look so miserable as he stands there all alone, fiddling with the sleeves of his pullover, digging the toe of his foot into the hardwood floors, praying to god he blends in nicely with the cream colored walls. But it’s on his mental the _entire time _, and he’s never been good at acting natural during situations that breech past his comfort zone.___ _ _ _

______He’s just about to scramble upstairs, look for a bathroom to hide out in until Zayn comes back with his liquid courage, because the air gets really thick, even from where he’s standing at six feet tall, and people are starting to notice him, starting to recognize the bloody sweater vests and khakis beneath the skinnies and mock hipster Chelsea boots, when a shrill, “Hey, Harry!” comes from directly behind him and suddenly Niall’s sauntering over, cherub cheeked and bubbly. “Hey, man.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Harry offers an acknowledging nod, doesn’t quite trust his voice yet._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Can I get you a drink?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Zayn’s got me covered.” His throat still feels like it’s been stuffed with rusty construction nails and thumbtacks, but he’ll endure the pain long enough to greet Niall, the party host, who just so happens to be about the nicest guy Harry’s ever encountered._ _ _ _ _ _

______“I’m digging tonight’s look,” he counters, tugs at Harry’s shirt sleeve mindlessly. “It’s very you. And very Zayn. Kind of as if—“ he hiccups, gently swaggers back and forth before catching his footing, laughs at himself, and then smiles, like he wouldn’t rather be anywhere else in the world, except beside Harry, “you and Zayn had a love child.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Thanks.” Harry’s not mad. In fact, he’s pretty sure he’d laugh it if weren’t for the fact that his head’s been spinning pretty much since he’s stepped foot on the front porch. “That’s exactly what I was going for.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Niall nods his head, erupts into another fit of giggles that are found to be so contagious, Harry actually has to grip his side when his stomach starts to hurt. (It’s not even that funny, but Niall’s got a sort of trademark laugh that even Harry can’t completely overlook.)_ _ _ _ _ _

______Once they’ve both sobered up, Niall rubs at his glassy blue eyes before, “So how’s bio tech without me?” actually leaves his lips and _shit _, he’s actually here to chat Harry up.___ _ _ _ _ _

________Harry hasn’t quite yet been ‘trained’ on how to have a proper conversation, as Zayn’s main focus had been trying to slowly weed out the sweater vests for solid plain t-shirts, and persuading Harry to wear his curls out more often. “Mr. Whimsey still got his head lodged far up his own ass, I assume?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“How’d you know?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Niall snorts, taking a sip of his drink. “Just a lucky guess.” They laugh some more, sharing knowing glances. Before Niall had promptly dropped bio tech, claiming he, _’couldn’t take any more of this bullshit, the fuck is bio tech even useful for anyway?’, _him and Mr. Whimsey had had an ongoing feud after Niall received a forty two percent on a quiz he’d ‘revised for for days on end.’ Niall’s theory was that the bloke had had a thing against Irish folk. Harry simply thinks Niall had lied about revising.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________It’s all fun and games for a while, friendly banter Harry didn’t know he had in him. Niall wipes a tear beading at the corner of his eye, Harry throws his head back and laughs at Niall’s drunk jokes. The air is still pungent of liquor and pot, but the company’s good and so far Harry hasn’t been approached by any bad apples, if the bewildered once overs he occasionally receives don’t count._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Anyway, he reckons he’s having a decent time. Until Ed shows up, that is._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Hey.” Harry turns green, turns his face to peer down at his boots. They’d been a gift from his nan, an ode to show off those ‘ridiculously long legs of his.’_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Hey, Ed.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Surprised you decided to show up,” Ed says, and it takes a second for everything to register, that Ed’s words are now being directed at him. “You look a little less twinkish than earlier today. Didn’t think that was possible.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Zayn, bless his beautiful soul, presses into Harry’s side just in time, accompanied by a solo cup and a beer. He hands the cup to Harry, then uses his free hand to gently bunch the material of his pullover at the small of his back. “We get it, Ed. You’ve got a thing for twinks.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Harry sputters over his first sip of fruit punch and...vodka? Tequila? He doesn’t know. Only knows what his mum’s got stashed in her cabinets for “late nights.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Ed visibly pales. “Oh come off it, Zayn. I’m just having a bit of fun with Harry here.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Does he _look like _he’s having fun?” Harry takes another sip of his drink. If he’s going to make it out alive tonight, he’s going to have to rely on this so called buzz Zayn’s been hyping up all night. “What? Are you so insecure of your own sexuality that you’ve got to pick on Harry’s every chance there is, or has your mum simply raised you to be a grade A dick?”___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Niall visibly winces. Harry clears his throat. Zayn inches forward. Has never been the type of lad to back down without a fight._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Whatever,” Ed scoffs. “No one around here can take a joke.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Harry can see the physical strain in Zayn’s face, the desire to speak his mind despite the fact that Ed’s got at least forty pounds on him. So he reaches for Zayn’s hand and tugs him forward, excuses them until they’ve made it a safe enough distance away. “ _Chill _, Z. You look like you’re about to burst.”___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________Zayn takes three long pulls from his beer. “He’s a prick.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Yeah, but, we can’t just go on fighting everyone who doesn’t like me. We’ve still got to pick and choose our battles.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Right,” Zayn agrees, positively fuming. “And I chose to put that homophobic bastard in his place.” Harry whips his head back, makes sure Ed hasn’t overheard them. The last thing he needs right now is to cause another riff. “He looks down at you like his shit doesn’t stink.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______________”I’m fine, Z. _I can take care of myself. I promise.” The tension is still there, wound with anger and unfinished business, but Harry rests his hand over Zayn’s clenched fist, and he suddenly deflates, sags forward, rests his head on Harry’s shoulder. Harry feels him breathe. Recklessly and unlabored; the overprotective brother Harry’s never had.__ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“You know I can’t help it,” he grumbles, muffling his words into Harry’s jumper. “Sorry. I’m completely making tonight about me.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“You’re not.” Harry grazes Zayn’s shoulder with his own. And, since he sees an open opportunity he’d be an absolute knob head to resist, “Can we leave now? Go home for a cuddle?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“Are you buzzed?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“No.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“Explains why you’re even asking me that question, then.” He motions towards Harry’s full solo cup. “Drink up, princess.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________•••_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________He quickly begins to realize the more he drinks, the easier it gets. The first two had gone down rather sporadically, although they’d tasted like nothing more than fruit juice cocktail. The third was noticeably stronger. Had a bit of a bitter kick that Harry felt working at the back of his throat like skin and gravel._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________He finishes half before he realizes he’s buzzed. Finally._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“We should dance.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“No,” Harry states. “We shouldn’t.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“I don’t feel like you’ve had the full experience until you’ve danced, though.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“Believe me.” Harry scouts the crowd. “I’ve gotten the full experience.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________It’s just—he’s been observing all night. Had seen the gyrating bodies, the euphoric faces, the wild, mascara smudged eyes and the embarrassing wardrobe malfunctions. He’d seen a girl accidentally slip in her heels, a couple in their element, slowly grinding to the beat, and well, as much as he hated reliving it, Louis and Eleanor. It wasn’t his intention to _spy _, as he’d never been the nosy type, but he can’t help that his body knows what it wants, that Harry can instantly spot Louis in a crowd full of hundreds. Even when he’s got Eleanor wrapped around him like a scarf.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________It’s kind of pathetic. (Tell him something he doesn’t know.)_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________In retrospect, he’d already seen so much, watching had already became the full experience._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________“You’re really gonna make me dance alone?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________“You hate dancing,” Harry reminds him, just to set the record straight._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________“Yeah but. This song. I can’t _not _want to dance to it.” Harry laughs at that, shakes his head disbelievingly. It’s crazy what a couple of beers and a minor head rush from a cigarette can do to change Zayn’s stone cold, Bradford bad boy persona. “Besides. It’s dark enough. No one’s really watching.”___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________“Hard pass, pal.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________“Suit yourself.” Zayn stands, digs in his pockets before handing Harry his keys. “Hide them for me, will ya? Don’t want to end up doing something stupid.” And then he saunterers off, directly in the pit of the crowd, dances like nobody’s watching. It’s the first time Harry’s ever seen him look so serene, so careless and free. He envies it a bit, envies the way the crowd cradles him gently, accepts him with open arms._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________He stays and watches until he finds himself wishing he could be a bit more like Zayn. Only then does he stand, waddles up the stairs despite the fact that he’s almost a thousand percent sure the number one party rule is to stick close to your mates, finds a fake plant, plants the keys there, then distinctly hides in one of the guest bedrooms, to hell with it._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________The room is simple, a white bed spread to adorn the beige walls, a side table met with a lamp, thick grey curtains covering the window he strongly considers escaping through (except he’s on the second floor and would most likely-probably-indefinitely break his neck.) Hey. At least his drinks still cold. (He stares at it like he hates its guts before chugging it in one go.)_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________When he’s drained the cup of any liquid, he flips down onto the pristinely made bed with without a single care in the world. His eyes close on their own accord, thanks to the strumming in his veins and the light dizziness clouding his vision. He vaguely thinks he’s going to be sick. Then he realizes he’d watched Zayn make his drink, and he _had _gone quite light on the liquor. (Most of his buzz was a placebo effect. _Sue him.) _______ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________Nevertheless his mind churns like his stomach, thoughts of Ed and Niall, thoughts of Zayn. Thoughts of that poor girl who’d nearly snapped her ankles clean. Thoughts of Eleanor. Thoughts of the way her hair gently grazes her collar bones, accentuates the swell of her chest. Thoughts of her beautiful brown eyes, and her soft, feminine waist, and all the other traits Harry lacks. Like Louis. And dick._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________He shakes himself out of it before he can even graze upon those realms. For fucks sake, he’d managed to spend the entire night dwelling on proper irrelevant bullshit. First on Ed, then on Louis, then on himself, and now on his virginity? He wasn’t ready to discombobulate himself further; _the alcohol and second hand smoke was doing him just fine, thank you very much. _____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________So he thinks about not thinking about his virginity, which leads him to think about his virginity, and suddenly he’s spiraling, putting himself down for being so untouched and prudish, wondering why a single soul hasn’t had the desire to strip him of his innocence._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________But his thought process is a little out of wack because of the buzz that really sort of feels like laying upside down for too long, and whenever his virginity becomes a constant thought in his head, his brain thinks it’s funny to instantly intercorrelate Louis’s face. It’s actually far worse than it sounds, he’d actually started to refer to himself as his own worse enemy, because as soon as Louis becomes a revolving element, a gentle reminder that the boy of his dreams _literally exists _, Harry reckons being a virgin isn’t so bad.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________Especially since the only person he’s willing to lose it to is practically balls deep inside his girlfriend, dancing around his teammates, unbelievably oblivious to Harry’s utter existence._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________He’s so fucked. So gone for him. It’s fucked. His whole life can just fuck itself._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________That feeling, that mindset, everything Harry feels in that moment, amplifies tenth fold when a staggering figure barges in unannounced. Harry doesn’t bother moving a muscle. He lays there like he’s dead. Eventually, they’ll get it. Eventually they’ll leave Harry alone, eventually they’ll allow Harry his emotional spiral. They always do._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________He guesses he should’ve seen it coming, really. Because he’s sure a few seconds have passed, and there hasn’t been so much as a mangled apology, or the tell tale sound of a door slowly slipping shut, or anything else of the sorts. Harry rubs at his tired eyes, braces himself, and tries not to projectile vomit all over Niall’s prestige bedding when he heaves himself off the bed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________Low and behold, two fumbling silhouettes, tearing one another’s clothes to shreds, stuck in the door jam, attacking each other with varying kisses. Slow and soft, hard and fast, long and thorough. Harry suppresses his groan, but only because he’s too busy gaping like a fish out of water._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________(The thing is they don’t even realize he’s there, watching them with bed hair and crazy eyes and random, rapidly depicting thoughts.)_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________Eventually, they break apart long enough to shut the door behind them. Harry watches the first shadow lunge for the others neck almost immediately after though, suckling and bruising the skin like they haven’t got all night to kiss and tease. “Fuck,” a voice says. And the tone’s nice, airy and husky, just short of labored. “Fuck, El. No. This is Niall’s room.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________See, the logistics make sense. But for Harry, nothing really clicks. Not until ‘El’ pulls back far enough for Harry to get a good look at Louis Tomlinson’s face, sheathed with a mask like he’s torn between doing his girlfriend on his best mates bed and calling in for a rein check. The light from the lamp barely caresses Louis’s face, does little to nothing to ensure it’s really him. Luckily, Harry’s a die hard fan. He knows those pert cheekbones, and that tousled, feathery hair like the back of his hand._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________“Lighten up a little, Lou.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________“I’m not gonna fuck you on his bed. Or in his room at all, for that matter.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________Harry finds it endearing enough, which is why he finally gains the momentum to speak himself into existence. “I’m—I’m in here.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________Louis gently moves Eleanor aside, gazing into the dimly lit room curiously. When his eyes meet Harry’s, dark blue globes framed by pretty, dirty blonde lashes, his entire demeanor changes. He squares his shoulders, shakes his head like that’ll help rearrange his thoughts, pushes Eleanor behind him, ever the gentleman. It amuses Harry. So he stands, likes that he’s already far taller than the both of them, wants to give his mock Chelsea boots a big ol’ kiss for the extra inches. (The little things in life really do matter.)_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________“Jesus,” Eleanor freaks, “how long have you been standing there?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________“Long enough.” Harry takes Louis in. He thinks this is the closest he’s ever gotten. Three feet away, with his lips swollen from assault that hadn’t came from him, and his clothes disheveled from hands that weren’t his._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________“And you’re now just saying something?” Louis pipes in, all lippy and rambunctious and so Louis, Harry wants to coon and wrap him in his arms and cuddle him until he’s all loose, warm and pliant. “What? You got a thing for watching? Bit of an exhibitionist?” Harry holds in his laugh. Louis’s a sassy little thing, stood at a lovely five foot nine at most, insinuating the worst. He kind of hates that this has to be their first (and probably last) exchange, but like he’s said before: his chances at possibly dazzling Louis with dimpled smiles and his amazing cooking skills, does not, nor will ever, exist._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________“No.” He picks up his cup from where it’s been residing on the floor. “I’m more of a foreplay kind of guy.” He doesn’t know why he says it. Maybe it’s the liquor in his system. Maybe it’s the way Louis’s glowering up at him like he knows Harry personally._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________Harry doesn’t get mouthy often, but he can’t help that despite what he may seem like from the outside, he’s got a whole other side of him yet to be awoken._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________On the contrary, Louis simply makes him brave. He doesn’t know how that makes him feel._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________Harry doesn’t have anything more to say, so he shoulders past them without so much as a withering glance back, practically tumbles back downstairs straight onto the dance floor, and starts his search party for Zayn._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________They (unfortunately) don’t get the chance to say goodbye to Niall because Zayn wants to study psychology through uni, claims he can read peoples faces, sees the look on Harry’s, and instantly agrees when he asks if it’s finally time to leave._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________“Kay.” Harry drops his belongings in the street, lifts his right foot before his left, then promptly yanks the boots off his feet one by one. “I’m officially over these shoes. They’ve been giving me weird vibes all night.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________Zayn laughs. “Weird vibes?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________“It’s like I’m overly aware of the fact that I’ve got on a pair of fake Chelsea boots. It’s all I’ve been able to think about all night.” He thinks about that for a second, reckons he should backtrack a bit. “Actually. That’s a lie.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________Zayn raises his eyebrows. “Oh?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________“Had an awkward run in with Louis and Eleanor.” He carefully watches the way his sock cladded feet pad across the sidewalk, and huffs out a nostalgic chuckle. “May have accidentally cock blocked them. Who knows.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________“Shit, man.” They walk in silence for a moment. Harry lets the cool air kiss his skin senseless, let’s his feet protest against the cool pavement, let’s his hair frame his face like wild strands of mane. “Seduction’s a process. We should try again next weekend._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________“I’m not trying to seduce anyone.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________“Shame.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________“He’s straight, Zayn. You know that.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________“But,” Zayn hiccups, stumbles forward, uses Harry’s levelheadedness for leverage. “You’re so strong and tall. And he’s so short and petite. You both just—,” another hiccup, “fit.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________Harry sighs. He’s kind of over talking about Louis._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________“Hey,” Harry says with a sudden burst of energy and a deep rooted desperation for a subject change. “Niall said I was dressed as if sweater vest Harry and leather jacket wearing Zayn had a love child.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________Zayn pauses, a goofy smile residing on his face like sunrises on cold winter mornings. “He didn’t.” And they laugh about it until they can’t anymore._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________His shoes feel like cinder blocks in his hands, but his head feels feather light, so all wrong in the world is right again. Zayn wanders off into his own thoughts, talks like he hasn’t gotten the chance in months. Harry listens intently. Listens to his rants about his sisters, openly explains his bisexuality, talks about what his mum had prepared for dinner the night before, (green curry and brown rice), mentions he’d met a nice fellow on the dance floor, who’d happened to obtain features that resembled those of a puppy. Harry tunes in happily, smiles when it’s due, laughs when the opportunity’s there._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________This is what he lives for. Early morning walks with Zayn. Maneuvering through Manchester with dead cellphones and fucked up map visuals. Harry doesn’t care that they get lost in the city, doesn’t care about Louis and Eleanor, disregards all concerns whole heartedly. He’s carefree. He’s uncensored. He’s loose limbed and tipsy._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________For the first time in a long time, he’s having the time of his life. He doesn’t think about the fact that come Monday morning, he’ll still be the same Harry Niall avoids and Zayn strives to change._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________It’s Friday, after all. He’s still got the weekend to celebrate._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are highly appreciated!! 
> 
> Thank you all once again for taking the time out of your day to read this. xx
> 
> More Harry and Louis action v v soon, now that I’ve got the basic plot line set down. I’m trying to figure out how I should go about this without being too cliche, although I’ve done a shit job at that so far lmfao. 
> 
> Enjoy anyway. (:

For guys like Harry, having a crush usually consists of a lot of pining and day dreaming and ‘what if’ scenarios that are strictly figments of the imagination.

So yes, he’s thought about what it’d be like to carefully hold Louis’s hand, and what it’d be like to share his first kiss with Louis. Shit, he’d even thought of what it’d be like to mark Louis with his mouth, what it’d be like to taste his skin, what he’d feel like wrapped around Louis, what Louis’d feel like wrapped around him—he’s got _quite_ the colorful imagination, just like any other virgin out there.

More important than that though, what scares him more than all the dirty thoughts and raunchy wanks, is the domestic side of his brain. Because Harry doesn’t just want to have sex with Louis Tomlinson. He wants the whole _shabang_.

Meaning, he’d like to experience the build up. He’d like to experience being Louis’ friend before his boyfriend. Doing normal, platonic things with him, like hanging out during the weekends and sharing memes through Facebook and having lunch with his friends.

It’s just—none of that had ever been realistic. Louis was well known, with a well known girlfriend, good looks, and better things to do than befriend Harry. All of it was more so in his head than anything. And he’d accepted that, had never had another choice but to accept it—

And then Zayn happened. Prods his giant nose into everything. Takes what Harry has figured out for himself, and slaps an entirely new perspective onto it.

“So I’m grounded,” Harry casually mentions on Monday morning, raking the curls from his face. Zayn had managed to persuade him into wearing them loose today, had said something about the way they framed his face nicely. With all due respect, he hadn’t known why he’d so easily agreed to wear his hair the way Zayn preferred, _especially_ since what had had happened only a few days prior.

Harry had woken up abruptly to a mouth full of Zayn’s hair, and the sounds of his mum humming to a remixed version of Bennie and the Jets. He’d rubbed the sleep from his eyes, shoved Zayn right off of him, (accidentally) off the couch, at that, and had immediately became victim to a rage induced, sneer wearing, zombie Zayn, who’d towered over Harry for the first time in forever. (Harry was actually surprised he hadn’t actually gone about beating his chest like King Kong.)

“I’m tired, I’m hungover, I don’t know where my car keys are, and I’d really appreciate five more minutes of sleep, or so help me God, I will end you.” Harry had merely laughed at that, disregarding the slight throb in his skull because Zayn was about as intimidating as five foot nine Louis Tomlinson. Which wasn’t saying much, if you asked him.

However, all humor was instantly drained from the situation after Harry’s mum casually strolled in, cup of tea intact, morning robe snug around and lithe frame. “I’d offer you boys a cup of coffee,” she’d said, jade eyes transfigured on Harry’s slightly horrified expression, “but first, I’d like to have a little discussion with Harry here.”

“Shit,” Zayn curses. “Please don’t tell me you totally spazzed out and told her everything.”

“I only told her the important parts, if it helps.” Harry winces. “You know I hate lying to her!”

“Jesus, Harry. She probably hates me!”

“Actually, she’s quite fond of you. Thinks you’re a responsible chap for handing over your keys and for keeping me relatively sober. Thinks you’re good for me.”

Zayn, pleasantly surprised, smiles, shinny and perfect. Together, they make their way down the corridor, Zayn handing out little acknowledging nods to the people that’ve bothered to greet him, Harry shuffling his feet and keeping to himself to avoid any pesky run ins with the wrong people.

They’re polar opposites, he’s well aware, but it’s kind of why they work so well.

“So you told her about Louis,” Zayn asks after a moment, and if the small smirk painted over his lips means anything, Harry’s quite positive he’s actually fawning for details.

“What’s there to tell?”

“Just that you want to bone the captain of the footie team, is all.”

Harry flushes hard. “I don’t—I don’t want to _bone_ him.” He promptly stops at Zayn’s locker, in which Zayn twists in the combination and starts loading his bag with books. “And for the love of god. Would you keep your fucking voice down?”

“You know it’s not healthy to lie to yourself all the time, H. It’s okay if you want to fuck Louis Tomlimson.” He retracts his sketchbook from the locker before letting out a petulant snort. “Shit. I think we _all_ kind of want to fuck Louis Tomlinson. Except for me, of course!”

“I’m—I’m trying to be the bigger person here.” Harry cracks his knuckles frantically. It’s been an entire two days, so he hasn’t rid the habit, go figure. “If it weren’t for your weird obsession with initiating literally every encounter we’ve ever had, maybe I’d be over him by now.”

“Harry, what do I want to major in?” And Harry’s heard the question, but it’s so random it’s rendered him kind of speechless.

“I— _What_?”

“What do I want to study in uni?” Zayn rephrases, slamming his locker shut.

“Psychology?”

“Exactly.” Zayn shakes Harry by the shoulders, but all it does is scramble Harry’s brain further. Forget everything he’s ever said about him and Zayn working. The kid clearly makes no fucking sense half the time. “I want to study psychology, which means I’m fairly ace at reading people.”

Harry stares at Zayn, bewildered. “You’re not a fucking medium because you want to study psychology, Zayn—“

“No, but I like to think I’m good at reading people’s faces.” As if he’s proud of the revelation, he leans against his locker, propping his boot up against the wall. “I see the way Louis looks at you when you’re not looking, and I think, ‘damn, there’s definitely something going on there’, every single time.”

And if Harry wasn’t absolutely stupefied before—“You can’t just...asses the way someone looks at me and instantly think it’s because they reciprocate feelings.” Mr. Whimsey waddles past with a medium sized coffee stain on his shirt, offering a small, “Good morning, Harry!” that Harry promptly grins at before turning back to Zayn. “And. Louis doesn’t look at me any specific way. I’ve hardly spoken two words to the guy. And he’s got Eleanor, so.”

“From an outsiders perspective, I see something. I haven’t quite depicted what exactly I’m seeing though, so ask me again tomorrow.”

Harry sighs. “You’re delusional.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. You’re conjuring something out of nothing to spare my feelings. Delusional.”

Zayn crosses his arms, flaunts the cool doodle tattoos he’d practically gone broke over late last year. “I’m not blind Harry, I know what I saw. He spent half of pre-calc burning holes into the back of your head just yesterday. But since you don’t believe me,” and he knows that look on his face, has known that look since thirteen years of age with Zayn Malik and his stupid kirk for spray paint.

Harry nearly has the mind to simply walk away, save himself while he still can. But Zayn’s already got,” You can ask him for yourself,” on his tongue as well as a well resonating, “Louis!” and running this late in the game would just look downright suspicious.

Nevertheless, Harry whips his head behind him, and once again, instantly picks Louis out from the regulars. He’s with Niall and Ed and Elenor and a couple of other guys Harry vaguely recognizes from the countless football matches he’d attended specifically for Louis.

He’s so mad though, he doesn’t even realize he’s stomped on Zayn’s foot until the lad’s letting out a cry that kind of echoes through the entire building. Though Zayn does a good job of pulling it off as more of a manic laugh, does an even better job of pushing Harry forward when Louis waves them (Zayn) over. Whatever.

“I’m going to fucking _castrate_ you,” Harry whispers while he’s still got time to recoup. He can picture it already; being shunned from the group and stared at like he’s got a third head. Being asked why he’s come around in the first place. In retrospect, Niall had done nothing but shown him absolute kindness at the party. For all he knows though, it all could’ve been a hoax derived from one too many drinks. God knows they were all a little (very much so) trashed last Friday. “You’ve literally lost your goddamed mind.”

“Do us all a favor and shut up and look pretty. It’s what you do best, anyway.” And really, that earns Zayn a subtle pinch to the side that he merely swats his arms at Harry for. They’re functional. They promise.

Well, Zayn’s functional. Harry’s salivating at the mouth. They’ve got on their jersey’s today.

And Harry’d just like to clarify—he realizes Louis’s all man, it’s one of the reasons Harry’s so attracted to him, that’s for damn sure, but his body’s got a slight curve to it that Harry’ll, ahem, _admire_ , until Louis grants him better wanking material, which usually starts on game days, and ends on the way he looks after a two and a half hour training session. Jesus.

Louis hardly gives him the time of day while they approach. He’s got his arm wrapped around Eleanor. Harry tries to refrain himself from sulking, but it’s all a little hard when Zayn’s not always emotionally available to cheer him up.

“Morning, lads,” Niall chirps, the epitome of sunny, as per usual. “You guys pumped for Friday’s game?”

Zayn answers, “Hell yeah,” the same time Harry answers, “I won’t be there.”

Zayn, ever the charmer, glares at Harry like he’s lost his mind. “Allow me to redeem for Harry here. We’ll _definitely_ be there.”

“Is that right?” Niall asks, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “I’m expecting you to wear a t-shirt with my face on the front of it, mister. Gotta support your favorite player.”

“You’ve always been one to talk some shit,” Louis pipes in, and Harry all of freezes when their arms brush, when Louis turns to him, and Harry can see the film of recognition glaze over his eyes before it’s vanishing just as fast. “As if anyone would take the time out of their day to get your face printed on a t-shirt.”

Harry chuckles while Zayn pats Niall on the back at the mock wounded look on his face. “Man. Screw you.”

“Hey,” Eleanor says, squinting at Harry suspiciously. “You’re the one we ran into at Niall’s party, right? The one that’s into foreplay,” and although the reminder embarrasses Harry to no end, she doesn’t sound cruel when she says it. More like she’s making a joke. An unfunny one, at that.

“Right,” Louis agrees, eyes twinkling in amusement. “Opposed to being an exhibitionist, that is.”

Zayn staggers back. “I’m sorry, but can someone please explain what the hell is going on?”

“Uhm,” Harry backtracks, scans his mind for something equally witty or amusing to say, but his mind draws a fat blank whenever he’s this close to Louis. “I was kinda drunk. Didn’t really know what I was saying. Sorry.”

“I’d meant to find you earlier.” And Harry, curly haired, Virgin Mary Harry, feels his heart drop to the pit of his stomach when he’s suddenly in the line of the crossfire, victim to Louis’s attention. “Wanted to apologize for talking to you the way I did. There was no need to be a dick about it. Wasn’t your fault we happened to be at the same place at the same time.”

“Wait,” Ed butts in, “ _this_ is the same kid that cock blocked you last weekend?”

Niall positively turns green. “Gross, Lou. In my bed? Really?”

“If anyone’s a cock blocker here, it’s Louis.” Eleanor rolls her eyes fondly. “He’s a good friend, you know. Surrendering pussy the way he did. He values your friendship enough.”

Niall salutes Louis, even earns a salute back. “I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

“Oh, piss off, you lot. I was just playing fair. Any of you would’ve done the same.” Then he looks at Harry, fiddling his thumbs like a four year old. “Or so I’d hope.”

“Hey. Pipe down with the judgments, Lou. Harry’s a cuddle bug. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Like The BFG.”

“BFG?”

“Big friendly giant,” Niall elaborates.

“It’s hard for him to trust people he hardly knows,” Eleanor whispers, for Harry’s ears only although the whole group has managed to hear her, running her dainty fingers through Louis’s hair. Louis has the mind to look half sheepish as he shrugs his shoulders, let’s his fringe fall into his face and hide his eyes cutely. Harry wants to bundle him in his arms and never let go. “Don’t take it personally.”

“Which is why should all hang sometime. Get to know each other.” Niall slaps Ed upside the head when he lets out a loud grunt of distaste. “I’d reckon we’d all get along quite nicely, actually.”

“Yeah,” Zayn nods his head, subtly juts his elbow into Harry’s rib cage. “I can see that. How’s after the game sound? We could always round up for some food.”

Harry holds his breath to prepare for the rejection. He can feel it bubbling in the air, gurgling in the kettle as the witches pick fun at his misfortune. Louis’s eyes, carcass blue and hooded, dare to meet Harry’s for the first time since he’s gotten here. For a while he’s momentarily stunned, asks god what the fuck he’d done to make someone so unbelievably perfect.

Louis eyes Harry’s face, a fast once over he would’ve missed hadn’t it been for the way his body was already so in tune with Louis’. “Yeah,” the boy says, airy like he’d been holding his breath too. “Could always go for some food. Isn’t that right, Niall?”

So he ends up somewhere at the back of the bleachers with Zayn on Friday, munching on the popcorn he’d bough from the concessions while he works to reboot every app he’s got programmed on his phone. Zayn stares at him warily, takes in his clear state of distress, shakes his head in amusement. Harry contemplated accidentally having a terrible fall, breaking his foot, and having to cancel on the promise of “food” after the game. It only seemed like his most logical bet, at this point.

“Why are we sitting so far up? I wanna see Liam work his ass up and down that field.” Zayn, wild as ever, shoulders Harry. Doesn’t even care when he slowly starts to topple over before catching his footing last minute. “And I know you wanna see Louis, too.”

“No. I don’t.”

“What did I say about lying to yourself?”

“I’m serious this time, Zayn. Just stop trying.”

“Who pissed in your cereal this morning?”

“Excuse me if I’m mad you’re the reason we’re in this mess in the first place,” Harry says, turning a cold shoulder towards Zayn.

“You’re seriously mad we’re having dinner with your dream guy? _Seriously_?” Zayn pushes Harry, albeit a little harder this time. “Honestly, man. You’re so weird. Any sane person would be _thanking_ me right now.”

“Get your ears checked. He. Has. A. Girlfriend.” Because truly, he doesn’t know how many times he can say it before he’s got his point across.

“Let’s go,” Zayn surrenders, disregarding Harry’s disapproving pout. Together, they trot down the bleachers and fight for a spot closer to the fields. The student section is packed tonight, full of painted faces and cozy jumpers. Harry hates he can’t enjoy it because he’s so focused on what’ll occur after. “If it’s that big of a deal, I’ll cancel for the both of us. Make up some shit excuse. Tell them my nans in the hospital. Whatever makes you happy.”

“I don’t want to cancel on them last minute.”

“Well I don’t want you to feel obligated to do something you obviously don’t want to do.” Zayn reaches for the popcorn, licks his fingers when they’re left glistening with butter. “If you want, we could just rent some movies. Have a quiet night in. I don’t mind. Up to you.”

Harry wants to cave. It’s been a week since Zayn’s “defile Harry’s innocence in every way possible” plan and he’s already gone to a house party, broken up a potential fight, gotten tipsy, had an awkward run in with Louis and Eleanor, and been banned from going out for a week. Which is all primarily negative, but it’s the most fun he’s had ever since...well, forever, so it’s mostly memories he doesn’t mind recounting.

Besides. Although a part of him knows he should give Louis up, knows he’s literally got no chance, another part of him is dying to at least befriend the guy. Which is a recipe for disaster in and out of itself, he knows, but the masochist in him wants it. No questions asked.

“Fine,” he agrees, gets all jittery when the team filters out onto the field and the crowd goes crazy. “I’ll go.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” His eyes fall on Louis. He’s got his hands on his knees, and his jersey falls over his frame quite nicely, leaves just enough room for his imagination to run wild. He doesn’t know how he’s managed to not drive himself absolutely crazy, at this point. Just looking at Louis makes him feel like he’s been deflowered. “Fuck. Look at him in those shorts. I’m going to hell.”

“Eyes above the belt, big guy.”

“Hey. I can look all I want. As long as I don’t touch.”

Zayn smirks, leisurely shrugs his shoulders. “What’s fair is fair, I suppose.”

(So he only feels slightly guilty for the fact that he thinks Louis’s got the perfect bum. It’s round and pert and looks so good in the damn skinny jeans he chooses to wear on the daily. Not to mention Harry’s almost a hundred percent sure he’d fit in his massive hands like a glove.)

“Try not to cream your pants over there, soldier.”

“No promises.” Because Louis’s dribbling the ball down the field, and he looks good enough to eat. Or fuck. Whichever works.

“See number 22 over there? That’s Liam.”

“Puppy Liam?”

“Yup. That’s the one.”

Harry takes a cautious peek, doesn’t want to miss Louis scoring his first goal. From what he can tell, Liam’s also got a nice physique. Broad and wide in all the right places, with lovely brown eyes and muscles that bulge right out of his tightly fitted jersey. “You’re right. He is fit.”

“Very. And he’s smart, and funny, and single. And he likes Batman, which. Is a deal breaker, of course.”

“Don’t see why you haven’t gone for it.“

“Still trying to configure which team he bats for.” The student section roars on cue. Harry whips his head to have found Niall pumping his fist in the air proudly. “Hey, looks like we’re on the same boat.”

“Except we’re not because Louis’s straight. That’s a fact, by the way. Not an opinion.” His eyes stay trained on the game, although he doesn’t really know how it all works. He was never the most athletic kid growing up, nor much into sitting around to watch. Arts were his thing the way spray paint and hair product was Zayn’s. He’d had to stay in his lane. “Got it through your thick skull yet?”

“Eh,” Zayn shrugs “Not quite.”

•••

They end up winning the game due to Ed, which Harry throughly hates, but the look on Louis’s face compensates for it in all ways. From the proud glint in his eye to the way his eyes crow when he smiles to the way he congratulates his team with harsh back and bum pats. The student section has gone absolutely ballistic, chanting their school name, waving posters around like crazy, even a choice few roaring out Louis’s name, as if the win had solely been based on the fact that Louis was team captain.

Harry doesn’t know what they hell had gotten into him when he leaps off the bleachers with the rest of his classmates and tramples towards the field in order to make a straight B-line for Louis. Zayn’s right beside him, fortunately, and yanks him back just in time for his dignity to be spared. He’d almost leapt at Louis, like a lion capturing a gisele, aiming for an earth shattering hug. Instead, Eleanor quickly came up from behind him, like an understudy for Macbeth, seemingly hadn’t seen Harry’s outburst, and planted Louis’s lips with a deep kiss that’d resonated over the ecstatic crowds. (And had easily been reciprocated.)

Harry shakes his head to rid himself of the image, nearly has a nervous break down smack dab in the middle of this mob.

“Keep your cool, man. Stay in your lane.” Zayn shakes frantically at Harry’s shoulders. “Was a close call, but I got you. I got your back. You’re okay now. You’re still cute as fuck and you still have gorgeous dimples and a pretty smile. You’re a tenner.”

Harry had wanted to be upset, but Zayn’s kind words sober him up (almost) completely. He doesn’t want to smile, but he can’t help the fact that his body kind of always falls into it whenever Zayn’s involved. “You’re so stupid sometimes. I love you.”

“I love you, man.”

“Hate to break up this little heart to heart,” Niall pipes in, seemingly from no where, “But we’ve just won against Cambridge. Enough with the sappy bullshit, let’s get fucked up!”

As the students slowly start to depart one by one, Louis pulls away from Eleanor’s close embrace. “Not uh. Practice tomorrow. Unless you wanna be hungover and bloated while hauling your fat us up and down those bleachers, I suggest we stick to non alcoholic beverages.”

“Bullocks.” Niall crosses his arms over his jersey. “My best mate’s turned into a nan!”

Eleanor giggles, wraps her arm around Louis’s waist, presses her face into his neck. Louis sighs. “I’m just trying to look out for you, Ni.“

Harry, wise, intelligible, gangly Harry, refuses to so much as look at Louis whatsoever. For starters, he can’t stand watching him swap spit with Eleanor. Mostly though, he doesn’t know how his body would react to a sweaty, jersey wearing, messy haired, adrenaline pumped Louis Tomlinson, and he doesn’t want to be stuck through dinner with him sporting a semi. So ignoring him until he’s changed will just have to do for now. He’ll figure out a permanent solution if a friendship ever does so happens to come out of tonight’s plans. Which, it probably won’t.

“Can we get a move on, boys? A girl’s got to eat!” Louis smiles fondly, presses a kiss to his girlfriend’s temple before dragging Niall by the wrist towards the locker rooms. “Just gonna shower up before we leave. Won’t take longer than ten minutes. We’ll meet you guys in the parking lot!” And Harry doesn’t see it with it his eyes, refuses to spare a look, but he’s fairly sure Niall’s following behind like an obedient puppy, tripping over his own paws.

And because he’d went to church when he was younger and God didn’t absolutely despise him for fancying boys, Eleanor gets called over by a group of cheerleaders. “You two wouldn’t mind meeting us out in the lot, would ya?”

“Not at all,” Zayn says for Harry.

“Great. See you both there in a mo.” And just like that, she’s sauntering off and joining the cheerleaders without a problem. Which is saying a lot, since the cheerleaders don’t typically accept anyone who isn’t constantly gripping onto a pair of pom poms.

“Zayn,” Harry says, filling the silence. The air’s crisp for the most part, chilling Harry from the neck down. He’s wrapped up in three thin jumpers and a beanie, has his thick framed glasses on the bridge of his nose, and a few pesky fly away hairs tickling his cheek. “What the hell is wrong with me?”

“Nothing, H. You just forgot.”

“Forgot?” Harry leans against Zayn’s car, thanks god he hadn’t decided to drive his bike instead. “Forgot what? The difference between what’s real and what’s not?”

Zayn offers a soft chuckle. “Don’t beat yourself up too bad. Just be glad I was there to save your ass a bucketload of embarrassment.”

“The way they kiss,” he whispers, because he can’t not think about it without his stomach churning like a laundry machine on overload. “They really are in love. Aren’t they?”

Zayn sighs, flicks out a cigarette from his pack, lights it, offers it to Harry, gets turned down. “I dunno, man. Maybe.”

“And Eleanor’s such a nice girl. I feel bad for—for even thinking about Louis the way I have.” Harry pushes his glasses up without realizing they’ve nearly slipped off his face. “Do you think it’s too late to rein check?”

“Rein check, or cancel?”

“Cancel,” Harry corrects sheepishly, albeit the exact moment Niall walks up with a duffle bag in one hand and a dirty pair of cleats in the other.

“Just a tad,” Zayn whispers. Throws out his cigarette although he’s just lit it. “Hey,” he calls out to Niall. “Where’s Tomlinson?”

“Fixing his hair, the prat. Never understood how I’ve been able to deal with his ass.”

“This ass,” Louis chirps in from nowhere, looking freshly bathed and utterly adorable, “Is totally amazing. Jealousy isn’t a good look on ya, Ni.” He jogs the rest of the way to the group, before asking a breathless, “Where’s El?”

“Socializing. Said she’d meet us here.”

“Ugh,” Louis throws his head back dramatically. “That girl can talk for ages. Should shoot her a quick text. Ask her to meet us there.” And as if he’d forgotten something important, he adds, “Oh! Ed too.”

Zayn elbows Harry. Harry elbows Zayn right back. “Who’s car are we taking?” Zayn asks, rather loudly, like Louis’s answer is about to prove something life changing.

“Yours,” Niall answers. “Mine’s a pig sty. Lou’s is on empty. Thinks he’s living the life driving on empty all the time.”

“I’m walking danger, Niall. Please, contain your envy.”

“My car it is then,” Zayn laughs, proceeds to jab his elbow into Harry’s ribs when Harry moves to take the passengers side on instinct. “The fuck are you doing?” he hisses. “Jesus. Have I taught you nothing?”

Harry, bewildered, lets out a confused, “What?” that Zayn simply groans at.

“Niall, my boy. Take shotgun. Harry’s seemed to have forgotten his manners.” Zayn shoots Harry a look, Harry shoots him a look right back, and then he folds his baby horse limbs into the back seat with a mere foot of space between him and Louis, only realizes once he’s settled what all the weird innuendoes from Zayn had been about. Ah. So he hasn’t quite yet given up on project ‘ _Seduce_ _Louis_ ’, as he’d recently began to call it. The world makes sense again.

Or almost, makes sense again. Because Zayn has just stuck his keys into the ignition when Ed pounds his fist on one of the back seat windows. Louis lifts his eyes from where they’d been skimming over his phone long enough to open the door for Ed. “Scoot over, Lou. I am not sitting by that freak.”

Without a word, Louis scoots to make room for Ed-mother-fucking-Sheeran. He’d thought he’d be able to handle it before, as long as the foot of space between them resided, but now that they’re close, touching from the waist down, a tight fit in Zayn’s clown car, he thinks he might need a moment (or ten) to screw his head on straight.

Louis has the mind to look sheepish as he accidentally steps on Harry’s foot. (As if Harry’s not thinking of dead kittens and his nan naked to distract himself from the heat of Louis’s jean cladded thighs transferring to Harry’s). “Oops. Sorry, mate.”

“S’fine!” he manages through a squeak.

“See what I mean,” Ed says, slamming the car door shut behind him. “Freak.”

Zayn, in the midst of backing out, slams on the breaks. The whole car lurches forward. “Would you rather walk to the diner, Ed?!”

Ed, stunned, quickly shakes his head no.

“Forget about him,” Louis whispers once the car has settled down and Zayn has managed to blast 1975’s album without any further complaints. Harry tries, gathers every last ion of strength in him to not blush under the way Louis looks at him so sweetly, runs his twinkling blue eyes across the planes of Harry’s red face before slowly settling on his eyes, but he can’t. Not when Louis’s so close Harry can feel the warmth of his breath. Not when he’s practically cooing sweet nothings into Harry’s ear. “He can be a right ass sometimes. Fuck em, right?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, clearing his throat. “Fuck em.”

Zayn meets his eyes through the rear view mirror, and although Harry can’t see his entire face, he just knows he’s got on that little smirk that so clearly reads, _I told you so._

He’s got a feeling this is going to be a long, long night.


End file.
